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a time when thousands of our prisoners of war finally came home after
years of starvation and hardship and, in some cases, torture. And
among the homecomings, one stood out.

A group of our POWs emerged carrying a large wooden crucifix, nearly
four feet tall. They had spent months on it, secretly collecting
firewood, carving it -- the cross and the body -- using radio wire for a
crown of thorns. It was a tribute to their friend, their chaplain,
their fellow prisoner who had touched their souls and saved their lives
-- Father Emil Kapaun.

This is an amazing story. Father Kapaun has been called a shepherd
in combat boots. His fellow soldiers who felt his grace and his mercy
called him a saint, a blessing from God. Today, we bestow another title
on him -- recipient of our nation’s highest military decoration, the
Medal of Honor. After more than six decades of working to make this
Medal a reality, I know one of Father Kapaun’s comrades spoke for a lot
of folks here when he said, “it’s about time.”

Father, as they called him, was just 35 years old when he died in
that hellish prison camp. His parents and his only sibling, his
brother, are no longer with us. But we are extremely proud to welcome
members of the Kapaun family -- his nephews, his niece, their children
-- two of whom currently serve in this country's National Guard. And we
are very proud of them.

We're also joined by members of the Kansas congressional delegation,
leaders from across our armed forces, and representatives from the
Catholic Church, which recognizes Father Kapaun as a “Servant of God.”
And we are truly humbled to be joined by men who served alongside him --
veterans and former POWs from the Korean War. (Applause.)

And, a bit later:

This is the valor we honor today -- an American soldier who didn’t
fire a gun, but who wielded the mightiest weapon of all, a love for his
brothers so pure that he was willing to die so that they might live.
And yet, the incredible story of Father Kapaun does not end there.

He carried that injured American, for miles, as their captors forced
them on a death march. When Father Kapaun grew tired, he’d help the
wounded soldier hop on one leg. When other prisoners stumbled, he
picked them up. When they wanted to quit -- knowing that stragglers
would be shot -- he begged them to keep walking.

In the camps that winter, deep in a valley, men could freeze to death
in their sleep. Father Kapaun offered them his own clothes. They
starved on tiny rations of millet and corn and birdseed. He somehow
snuck past the guards, foraged in nearby fields, and returned with rice
and potatoes. In desperation, some men hoarded food. He convinced them
to share. Their bodies were ravaged by dysentery. He grabbed some
rocks, pounded metal into pots and boiled clean water. They lived in
filth. He washed their clothes and he cleansed their wounds.

The guards ridiculed his devotion to his Savior and the Almighty.
They took his clothes and made him stand in the freezing cold for
hours. Yet, he never lost his faith. If anything, it only grew
stronger. At night, he slipped into huts to lead prisoners in prayer,
saying the Rosary, administering the sacraments, offering three simple
words: “God bless you.” One of them later said that with his very
presence he could just for a moment turn a mud hut into a cathedral.